


The Boneyard

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Midsomer Musketeers [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grave Robbers, Lawyers, M/M, Murder Mystery, Recovery, References to Addiction, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 10:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13925577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: The Reverend Aramis d'Herblay has a problem: somebody keeps digging up his graves. Unfortunately the police don't seem all that interested, at least, that is until the appearance of an altogether more recent corpse. Meanwhile, Athos has agreed to take on a case for a friend who's in danger of being evicted - but what starts as a simple property matter will bring Athos into conflict with both the law, and a murderer...





	1. Chapter 1

It was cold but bright, and the rare spell of good weather in an otherwise decidedly damp winter prompted Athos to venture out into the village. 

Sylvie was just coming out of the Estate Agent office, and he fell into step with her.

"Morning. I was going to ask if you fancied lunch, but you look busy."

Sylvie grinned back at him. "I was off to do a preliminary survey on a place that's just come on the books. Come with me if you like? It won't take long, it's just up the road. We could get lunch afterwards?"

"Sounds good to me." They strolled up the street past a row of old almshouses and turned down an alley. Halfway along Sylvie took a large old-fashioned key out of her bag and unlocked a wooden door set into the wall.

They stepped through into a courtyard and Athos looked around with interest. Paved paths criss-crossed the area between low walls that had the remnants of wooden frames in them, slowly being reclaimed by the scrubby bushes and weeds that had clearly been taking over for some time. Some of the frames had rotting nets hanging from them, and Athos tried to work out what they were for.

“Were these fruit cages?” he guessed, following Sylvie to the end where she was taking dimensions with a laser measure and making notes.

“Close but also exactly wrong.” She laughed at his look of confusion. “It was an aviary. The cages and nets were to keep birds in, not out.” 

“Looks like it’s been out of use for a good while.” 

“It got closed down way back. It was a private collection, but when the authorities got wind of it they found pretty awful conditions. Sad really.”

“Did they let the birds go?” Athos had been conscious of a distant twittering ever since they’d entered, and now he wondered if some of the birds had stuck around.

“I think the ones they could save probably got shipped off to zoos. Why, did you see a flamingo?”

She was teasing, but Athos shook his head. “I just meant the number of birds around. You’d think they’d avoid the place really.”

Sylvie was preoccupied with her survey, but looked up at him distractedly. “What birds?” 

“Those birds.” Athos gestured vaguely around them. “The ones – I guess they’re in the ivy or something?”

“I don’t hear anything?”

Athos opened his mouth then closed it again with a shrug. “I’ll let you crack on.” He wandered aimlessly away between the plots, thinking mostly about what to have for lunch. 

As he walked, the background chirping gradually became louder and louder until it finally penetrated his thoughts and he looked up in surprise. There was nothing to see, just the rustling of leaves all about him. 

He was about to call out to Sylvie to ask her if she heard it too now, but something made him stay quiet. There was an almost threatening note to the sounds, a mixture of harsh cawing, shrill alarm calls and the sinister fluting of a bird that he’d never heard before. 

As he looked to see how far away Sylvie was and discovered she was out of sight behind a row of bushes, something fluttered across his vision.

Distracted, he turned again, and again, as he caught more and more movements out the corner of his eye. Something brushed across his face and he jerked back, thinking he’d walked into a cobweb or a trailing bird net but there was nothing there.

The noise of the birds now was a positive cacophony, and Athos resisted the urge to put his hands over his ears. He couldn’t see them, that was the strange thing, but they sounded like they were all around him.

Something else fluttered against his cheek, this time the unmistakeable brush of a wing, and something snatched at his hair.

Athos ducked, then flinched back an a renewed outburst of birdlike screeching right in his face. More claws in his hair, and his hands touched beating wings as he tried to fend them off. A claw scratched his face, then another, and he curled into a ball, arms crossed protectively over his head, shouting in wordless alarm.

"Athos! Athos are you alright?”

Cautiously Athos lowered his arms to find Sylvie crouching at his side looking worried. Around them all was silent, with no sign of any birds.

“Athos? Do you need a doctor?”

He was crouched on the ground in the shelter of one of the raised beds, half entangled with a tree. She helped him out, and he brushed bits of leaf from his clothes.

“I’m fine. Really. I’m not ill.”

“What happened?” She guided him to a low wall, and they both sat down. “Was it a panic attack? “Should I call Porthos?"

"No. No, please, I'm fine. I'll be alright." The thought of the flack Porthos would get being called away from work because his boyfriend had had a funny turn didn't bear thinking about.

“Athos what happened?” 

“You didn’t see anything?” 

“Like what?”

“Birds?”

She shook her head. “I heard you call out. When I found you, you were huddled in a ball in the bottom of a bird cage. No birds in residence.” 

“They attacked me,” Athos said lamely, feeling that as wild animal attacks went, being pecked to death by sparrows was hardly an anecdote to go out on.

“What, invisible birds?” Sylvie gave him a look. “It’s alright you know,” she said more gently. “I know you’ve had problems. You don’t have to pretend.”

“I didn’t imagine it!” Athos rubbed his face frustratedly, and his fingers came away bloody. "Look, I'm bleeding. How do you explain these scratches if I wasn't attacked by something?"

"You fell into a bush, Athos. I don't think the paranormal has a great deal to answer for here."

Athos, still shaken, gave up. Concerned by his pallor Sylvie insisted on abandoning the rest of the survey and escorted him firmly to the nearby tearooms for lunch.

A plate of sandwiches and a strong pot of tea later, she was pleased to see he was getting some of his colour back.

“You think I imagined it, don’t you?” he asked resignedly. 

“I think I told you a horrid story about the place and your mind did the rest,” Sylvie ventured. “I didn’t see or hear anything like what you described, and I wasn’t that far away. I’m sorry Athos.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but he didn’t really know what else to say. Although as he settled the bill and said goodbye to Sylvie, the thought occurred to him there might be someone in the village more inclined to believe him.

\--

"Athos. What can I do for you? I'm assuming it's something, given you only ever darken my door when you want a favour." Ninon de Larroque gave him an arch look as he came into the shop, and he gave her an apologetic smile in return.

"Am I that bad? Sorry." 

As Athos got closer Ninon noticed how pale and shaken he looked, and waved him hastily to a chair. "No, you're alright. It's not like I'm rushed off my feet."

"How _do_ you keep this place going?" Athos asked, distracted from his own problems by the realisation that Ninon never seemed to have any customers.

"I sell a lot of stuff online," she said stiffly. "So what's up? You didn't come in here to interrogate my business model."

"I just had a rather strange experience. And I suppose I wanted to talk it through with someone who's less likely to automatically assume I'm cracking up. Again," he added mournfully.

Ninon snorted, and leaving him settled in the chair disappeared into the back of the shop. Athos heard the click of a kettle and a minute later she came back carrying two mugs of herbal tea. 

"Tell all," she instructed briskly.

Athos took a cautious sip of the tea and carefully put the mug down where he could plausibly forget about it, before relating as closely as he could what he’d just experienced. 

“You never actually _saw_ any of the birds?” Ninon clarified. “And afterwards – there were no feathers, no droppings?”

“No,” Athos said slowly, thinking back. “No traces at all.”

“A blackbird flew into my living room once,” Ninon told him. “By the time I’d got the damn thing to fly out again the whole place was covered in feathers and shit. I think it’s safe to say your birds weren’t real.”

“You think I imagined it as well?” Athos said gloomily, and she tutted at him.

“I didn’t say that at all. Perhaps I should have been more specific. They weren’t actual, living, physical birds. They weren’t manifest on the corporeal plane.”

“They’d run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible?” Athos suggested helpfully, and Ninon glared at him.

“I thought you were taking this seriously.”

“I am,” he promised contritely. “I mean – are you saying they were ghosts?”

“Perhaps more an echo of place,” she suggested thoughtfully. “A psychic stain, resulting from a prolonged period of misery concentrated in one location.”

“Do you think Sylvie’s in any danger if she goes back?” Athos asked anxiously, having utterly failed to secure a promise from her to stay away. 

“You said she didn’t notice anything untoward? Then no, I’d say not. For that matter I don’t think you were particularly in danger as such, for all it was an unpleasant experience.”

“Is there anything we can do about it?”

“I imagine whoever buys the old place will flatten it and build something new,” Ninon said practically. “That should be enough. I’m all for conservation, but some things need to be brought to an end. You can do that with a swing shovel just as effectively as with holy water.”

Not for the first time, Athos was reminded that underneath all the floaty scarves and incense there lurked a hard edge of practicality. 

“So you think I was just – what? Picking up on a bad atmosphere?” he clarified. 

“Have you never wondered how a place gains an atmosphere in the first place?” Ninon countered. “Events affect the material plane, or they can do. Some places are more absorbent, of course. Greedier.” Athos shuddered, and she considered him with interest. 

"You've experienced this kind of thing before, haven't you?” she guessed. “You’ve asked me about other local hauntings."

"Maybe." The trouble was, it had never been anything he could really put his finger on. There’d always been the lingering doubt that it had all been in his head. And that, to him, was the more terrifying thought. 

"Have you always had these kinds of experiences?" 

"No."

Ninon was not a woman to be put off by terse and discouraging responses. "Have you been ill recently?"

Athos stared at her. "Who told you that?" he asked rather coldly.

"No one. It's just - psychic ability tends to manifest in one of two ways – usually it’s something you're born with, but occasionally it can come on quite spontaneously in later life. When this happens, more often than not it's following some kind of traumatic event - a life-threatening illness, or a bad accident say."

"I had a nervous breakdown," Athos admitted quietly. "I was in a clinic for several months before I came here."

"That could well do it. You've only experienced such things since then?"

"Yes." It was an uncomfortable realisation, and Athos had absent-mindedly taken another mouthful of the awful tea before he noticed what he was doing. "Are you saying I'm psychic?"

"I'm not suggesting you're going to predict next week's lottery numbers," Ninon said dryly. "Just that you may be rather more sensitive to the world beyond than previously."

As he prepared to leave, she had a final word of advice that chilled him all the way home.

"Be careful. There are worse things out there than a bad atmosphere. If the spirits should realise that you can sense them – that you could be a conduit - they won't give you a moment's peace."

\--

Athos remained noticeably preoccupied for the rest of the day, and lying in bed that evening Porthos turned to him in mild concern.

"You alright?" 

"Yeah." Athos breathed the word out on a tired sigh. "Why?"

"You're just very quiet, that's all. Even for you. Is anything wrong?"

Athos gave a non-committal murmur. "I had a bit of a weird experience when I was out with Sylvie earlier today, that's all."

"Weird how?" 

With some reluctance, Athos related the events of the morning, aware of how flimsy it all sounded in the re-telling to someone as naturally sceptical as Porthos. 

When he'd finished, Porthos was staring at him. "You're saying you think you were attacked by ghost birds?"

Athos rolled over onto his back with a hiss of frustration. "This is why I didn't tell you."

"Don't be like that." Porthos snuggled closer. "I'm not taking the piss. _Do_ you believe that?"

"I don't know." Athos sighed. "What's the alternative? That I'm seeing things again?"

"If you're worried, do you think you should see a doctor?"

"No! I've had enough doctors for a lifetime."

"Maybe a therapist then?" Porthos persisted.

"You _do_ think I'm delusional!"

"I'm just trying to help." It was Porthos' turn to sigh. "Fine. It was ghost birds. Best avoid the graveyard then, eh?"

"I've never had any problems there," Athos mused, taking the suggestion at face value. "It's always felt very peaceful."

"Just birds then? Maybe you were a cat in a previous life."

This finally raised a smile. "I'm not sure I believe in reincarnation," Athos said. "I'm don’t think I could bear the idea of having to go through all this over and over again."

"Is life really so bad?"

"There are bits of it I like," Athos conceded, leaning in for a kiss. “Did you know, it’s exactly a year since I moved here?” he added quietly. 

“Should I have got you a card?” Porthos grinned, but Athos was lost in thought again.

“Over a year since I left the clinic. Sometimes – sometimes things like this happen, and I wonder – should I still be in there?”

“No. Athos, no.” Porthos said firmly. “Look, in my job I see all manner of people, from all areas of life, and trust me, you are one of the saner people walking around out there.”

“Thank you. I think.” 

“That definitely sounded more reassuring in my head.”

“Sometimes I wonder – what if I am still in there? What if all this is just a dream that I’m trapped in?” Athos confessed in a whisper. 

Porthos gave him a stricken look and wordlessly gathered him into his arms, holding him reassuringly tight.

Eventually Athos pulled back, looking embarrassed but slightly better. “Thanks. Sorry.”

“You don’t really think that, do you?” Porthos asked concernedly.

“No, not really. It’s just sometimes things are so fuzzy. And then things like this happen, and – well they don’t, do they? Happen I mean? Normally?”

Porthos shrugged. “Depends who you ask I guess. Someone like your mate Larroque believes the spirit world is a fact of life. Someone else is going to think it's all bollocks.” 

"What do you think?"

"Open minded me." Porthos winked at him. "Very, in fact. Here, if this is all in your head, does that mean I’m your dream guy?”

“Definitely.” Athos did smile then, responding to Porthos' increasingly eager kisses and letting himself be drawn down under the covers. 

\--

"Better?" Porthos murmured, half an hour of vigorous activity later.

"Much better," Athos agreed, draped sleepily across his chest. "Who needs therapy when you've got good solid dick?"

This sent Porthos into a paroxysm of giggling. "You're a dirty boy on the quiet, ain't ya?"

"Who, me?" Athos asked innocently, and Porthos kissed him soundly. 

\--

When Porthos had gone to work the next morning, Athos took a little diary from the pocket of his dressing gown and sitting at the kitchen table carefully made a note of the pills he'd taken the night before to help him sleep.

Porthos had given it to him, promising that he'd never look at what Athos wrote in it, but encouraging him to use it to keep track of how many he took and when, and also to record the time he went to bed and time he woke up. Trying to keep to a regular routine was helping slightly, but it was a painfully slow process and the notebook made occasionally depressing reading. 

Athos was still sitting there trying to summon the energy to get dressed when a key in the front door heralded the arrival of Trixie Evans, who came in to clean for him once a week. He slipped the notebook out of sight.

"Morning. Sorry, I'll get out of your way."

"No, you're alright. You stay put." Trixie generally preferred most of her clients to be somewhere else while she got on rather than breathing down her neck, but having discovered Athos never interfered was happy enough for him to stick around.

Deep in his own thoughts and still woolly from last night's sedatives, it took Athos a while to notice that this morning Trixie seemed uncharacteristically as distracted as him. 

"Is everything alright?" he asked curiously.

"Yes? Yes of course," she assured him, sounding flustered. 

"It's just - I couldn't help noticing you're cleaning that sink with furniture polish."

Trixie looked down at the can in her hand and groaned. "I am so sorry." 

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure it'll give it a lovely shine," Athos smiled. "Look, are you sure everything's okay? If it's none of my business tell me to butt out, but if I can help in any way?"

Trixie sighed, chewing her lip indecisively. "You used to be a solicitor didn't you?"

"Still am, technically. Just not currently practising. What's up?"

"We're being evicted."

"What?" 

Trixie nodded sadly. "They're tripling the rent on our cottage. There's no way we can afford that much. We're going to have to leave."

Athos pulled out a chair and waved her into it. "Tell me everything. I'll put the kettle on."

"I should really get on."

"Put your feet up," Athos instructed. "I'll still pay you, if that's what you're worried about. The place won't fall into disrepair if it's not seen to for a week. I should probably do more myself."

"I'd rather you didn't, I need the income." Trixie's laugh was rather bleak, but she sat down gratefully enough while Athos made them both tea. 

"We live in one of the cottages on the old manor estate," she explained, when he'd joined her at the table. "The old marquis - the one who died?"

Athos nodded, glancing automatically out of the kitchen window. He'd found the old marquis swinging from one of the trees at the end of his garden not long after he'd arrived here, but Trixie was obviously unaware of this, and he didn't say anything. 

"Well, he'd always maintained that those cottages were for the use of locals. My husband was born here in the village," she added, in case Athos was wondering how a second-generation Bangladeshi immigrant came to qualify.

"That was very good of him. The marquis, I mean."

"We'd never have been able to afford to live here otherwise. Bill's a postman, he doesn't make all that much. With two kids we need everything extra I can bring in as it is. But the rent was kept artificially low as long as one or both of us lived and worked in the village."

"And now that's changed?"

"The estate's been in limbo for a year, while they tried to trace the nearest living relative." She looked gloomy. "We had a letter from the new owner last week. Apparently it's been settled finally, and he’s having all the tenancies redrafted. Current market prices are way above what they'll be bringing in at the moment. I suppose I can't blame him, but - we'll have to leave. And the children have friends here, and we both work here, and - oh it's awful."

"I'd be glad to help, if I can," said Athos. "Let me see your tenancy agreement, and the letter you've received. I'll cast an eye over them, see if they're legally able to enforce the change. And I can look into the new owner too, see if he might be susceptible to a threat of negative publicity. It doesn't always give leverage, it'll depend what he does, but it might help."

"Oh that's ever so kind of you, but I don't think we could afford your fees," Trixie said awkwardly.

"Don't be daft, I'm not going to charge you anything," Athos assured her quickly. "It'll do me good. Keep my hand in, stop me going rusty. You'd be doing _me_ a favour, really," he added slyly, and she laughed. 

"Well. That's very kind of you. Thank you. Even if you could just buy us some time that would be a help. I've no idea where we're going to go at such short notice. We'll certainly have to leave the village."

"Presumably it's not just you affected?" Athos asked. "Have all the cottages been given the same letter?"

"Yes, all four." Trixie stared dismally into her empty mug. "It's such a shame."

"Don't despair just yet," Athos told her. "Let me see what I can do."

\--

Trixie hadn't been gone long before the doorbell rang, and Athos was surprised to find the vicar standing on his doorstep.

"Aramis! What can I do for you?"

"I've come to ask a favour actually. You might say no, which is fair enough, but I'm at my wits end."

"Seems to be the day for it," Athos noted. "Come on in."

"So what's the problem?" he prompted when, having settled in with a cup of tea, Aramis seemed strangely reluctant to broach what was on his mind.

"Grave robbing." 

Athos blinked. "Alright, I admit I wasn't expecting that."

"There's been a spate of it. Three graves dug up in three different churches in the last month alone."

"Have you told the police?"

"Yes of course I have. They just don't seem particularly interested. Do you know what they said? It’s probably just kids! Of course it's not bloody kids. Kids might spray paint obscenities in the porch or knock the head off an angel or two but they're not going to excavate a coffin that's six feet down, much less three of them."

"That does sound unlikely," Athos admitted. "But how do you think I can help?"

Aramis looked awkward. "I know your partner's a policeman. I've met him briefly a couple of times. I was wondering if you might put a word in for me, get him to take a look at things?"

"I can try. But I can't promise he'll be able to take it on."

"No, that's fair enough. I just don't think the initial reports have gone any further than the front desk. It would be a step forward just to think I was being taken seriously."

"Have there been any problems here in the village?"

"Not so far," said Aramis darkly. "That's one of the things I'd like to know - is this a wider problem, or it is just me? I look after four parish churches, and this is the only one of them that hasn't been hit. Yet."

"You mean it might be personal? Was anything taken?"

"Not as far as I could tell. Maybe a ring or two at most. They all had the older, more ornate kind of tombstones so maybe they hoping to strike buried treasure – but people are rarely buried with much, maybe a wedding ring or a set of medals, but hardly anything worth going to all that trouble for.”

"Any link between the graves that were disturbed?"

Aramis shook his head. "Not an obvious one. Two were men, one a woman. Different dates of burial, different families. Different ages when they died. It's either utterly random or very specific, and I've no idea which or why. But it can't be allowed to continue."

"I'll speak to Porthos. But if I'm honest, I don't know what he can do about it, if nothing was taken and you've no proof that St George's is going to be next." 

"I'd settle for feeling less fobbed off," said Aramis wryly. "I know crimes against the long-dead are always going to be less of a priority, but how would they feel if it was a member of their family?" 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

\--

By lunchtime Athos had a copy of Trixie's tenancy agreement and the letter she had received informing her of the intended price rise. Unfortunately as far as he could see there was nothing preventing the new owner from doing it - the contract only specified that the tenants had to work within a radius of ten miles from the centre of Owlbrook to qualify for residency, and that this could be terminated by either party at any point with three months’ notice - which they'd been given.

Athos decided he need something more historical. If there was an original land deed stating that the cottages had been given over for the use of the villagers in perpetuity, he might be able to make a case.

Trixie’s contract had been drawn up by the small firm of solicitors based in the village and Athos figured it was worth a shot seeing what other paperwork they might be willing to share, given that Feron was now long-deceased. Worst case, they’d just tell him to piss off. 

Dialling the phone number on the letterhead, Athos asked if he could make an appointment to speak to someone about the late Marquis' estate. Somewhat to his surprise, he was told he could have half an hour that afternoon, and pondered whether they thought he was connected to the new owner. Still, it wasn’t his problem if the receptionist hadn't thought to check.

For the first time in over a year, Athos found himself putting on a suit. He stared at himself in the mirror. It felt strange, simultaneously good and bad. It was like looking at a man he'd temporarily forgotten how to be, but the simple act of donning the clothes in itself somehow conferred a renewed sense of purpose. 

He steeled himself for possible confrontation, and headed into the village.

\--

The firm of Overton Drew proved to comprise exactly one secretary and one solicitor, the late Mr Overton having moved on to the great courthouse in the sky some years previously. 

Athos was shown into a neat office overlooking the main street. The man behind the desk was balding with a thick grey moustache, and was approaching retirement age. He rose as Athos came in, and offered his hand.

"Stephen Drew. Pleased to meet you."

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr Drew. Athos de la Fère." Athos handed him a business card, carelessly neglecting to mention the fact that he wasn't technically working for that company at present.

Drew raised an eyebrow. "Benet and Shaw. The big guns, eh? Have you come far, can I offer you some tea?"

"That's kind, but actually I live here in the village. I'm acting on behalf of Patricia and William Evans. They’re in danger of being unfairly priced out of their accommodation on the Feron estate, and I understand you handled the late marquis' affairs?"

"I'm surprised they have an issue if they can can afford the kind of fees I imagine you command young man."

"Actually, I'm not taking a fee on this one. Patricia cleans for me, and I've got to know her quite well over the last year or so. It would be a shame to see them pushed out of the village."

"I see. How very commendable. But I'm not sure how you think I can help?"

"You handled the estate, I understand? Identified Feron’s successor?"

"Yes, that’s correct. There was a will, but unfortunately he'd been coerced into leaving everything to that man of his – Grimaud, was it? The one who killed him."

"Grimaud being legally unable profit from the death, of course."

"Exactly. We were left without an heir. Feron had never married, and died without issue. What we used to call a confirmed bachelor," Drew said delicately, and Athos hid a smile.

"Quite."

"Anyway, it seemed a shame to see the whole estate end up going to the crown, so I was determined to turn up another relative. We finally identified a distant cousin on his mother's side. Cedric Parsons. We're currently in the process of finalising probate."

"Will you also be handling things for Mr Parsons?"

Mr Drew gave him an odd look that Athos couldn't interpret. "Oh no, we're much too small a firm for him. He’s a developer, I understand. Owns quite a large company."

"But you dealt with all Feron's affairs? Not just his will, I mean?"

"Oh yes, I handled Phillipe's business for many years. He was a personal friend."

"Would you happen to have any of his papers still? Tenancy agreements, historical deeds, that kind of thing."

"I'm afraid everything’s already been boxed up and sent on to Parsons' solicitor." 

"Right. And who would that be?"

Mr Drew reached into a drawer and slid a business card across the table. It came to rest next to Athos' card. Other than the name, it matched it exactly. 

"Benet and Shaw," Mr Drew said dryly. "I imagined you would be aware of the fact. In fact, I was surprised when that wasn't why you were here. Does this not form a conflict of interest?"

Athos winced inwardly. "I wasn't aware of the connection. I, er - haven't filed any paperwork on this yet, as I'm not billing the Evans."

"I see. Well, perhaps you can ask your colleague to let you have sight of anything you require, if it doesn’t pose an issue." 

"Yes. I'm sure I can. Thank you for seeing me, Mr Drew. You've been most helpful."

Once outside and out of sight, Athos leaned back against the wall and groaned. "Shit."

"Language," reproved a cheerful voice, and he looked up to find Aramis grinning at him.

"Sorry vicar," Athos said with mock contrition and Aramis laughed. 

"Problem?"

"Possibly. Would you think it’s a sin to ask someone to do something that might get them into trouble? If the ultimate aim is to help someone else?"

"Depends. If they're aware of the risk you're asking them to take then the choice becomes theirs. If they're not aware of it, then the blame would be yours. But I'm not really the man to ask. One thing I like about the Church of England, they've never been too hung up about sin as an abstract concept."

Athos smiled. "Give my regards to Lady Bourbon," he called, as Aramis walked on past.

Aramis didn’t look back. "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean."

\--

"You want me to do _what_?"

Athos held the phone away from his ear slightly as the pitch Constance had just hit was quite painful.

"Just take a look."

"I could be fired!"

"Only if you're caught. Look, I'm not asking you to steal anything, just see if anything catches your eye."

"You know Jocelyn Warren's up for partner, right? If he finds me nosing around in his office he'll make a pair of mittens out of me."

"I have complete faith in your ability to sneak about the place unobserved," Athos told her. "Please? You like Trixie, don't you?"

"And you can stop with the emotional blackmail and all," Constance said severely, then sighed. "I'll do it for you, you know I will. But if I get fired you have to write me a reference."

\--


	2. Chapter 2

At a loose end until Constance turned up anything usable, Athos spent the rest of the afternoon calling on the other residents affected by the change. The cottages in question formed a little row on the edge of the manor grounds, and would once have belonged to labourers on the estate. They were small but charming, and Athos could well see how they could be turned into prettified lets turning a huge profit. 

Trixie and her family lived in the first cottage to the right of the row; next door to them was a young couple who taught at the village primary school, the third cottage was occupied by an elderly man and his son who worked on the forestry plantation, and the final tenants were a single mother, Geraldine Atkins and her young daughter Margaret. She worked part-time in the village shop, and of all of them was the person least able to afford to find somewhere new.

Everyone told the same story of shock and a sense of betrayal at receiving the unwelcome news, and were so glad to hear that Athos was looking into helping them, that he returned home faintly uneasy he might have given them false hope. Nobody had been able to furnish him with any additional information to support their cause, and he was painfully aware that unless Constance turned something up, he was sunk.

Researching Parsons’ business accounts online revealed that he was indeed the managing director of a fairly sizeable construction company, and unlikely to be susceptible to either pleas or accusations of unfair play. He was within his rights as they stood, and to have got where he was today probably had a fairly thick skin. Still, if Constance drew a blank, the only avenue left to them might be appealing to the man’s better nature. The problem was, having just read a newspaper report of a playground and community hall bought and bulldozed by Parsons to put up cheaply built flats, Athos strongly suspected the man didn’t have one. 

\--

"So - I took a case today," Athos told Porthos over dinner that evening. 

Porthos looked at him in surprise. "I didn't think you were going back?" 

"I'm not. This is local." He told Porthos about Trixie's problem.

"That's kind of you. Do you really think you can help?"

"I'm not sure." For the moment Athos decided against telling Porthos about the dubious sleuthing he'd asked Constance to do, in case he disapproved. "Bit of an impasse at the moment, but I'm hoping to get some more information tomorrow."

"How’s it feel?" Porthos asked, conscious that it had been some considerable while since Athos had done work of any description, let alone of the type he’d been engaged in at the time of his breakdown.

"Bit strange," Athos mused. "It feels good to be doing something. Using my brain for once. I’m just worried that I’m promising something I won’t be able to deliver. I don’t want to be a let-down.”

“ _Have_ you promised anything?”

“Technically no, only that I’d look into it.”

“There you are then.” Porthos squeezed his hand. “You can only do your best.”

“You don’t get a prize just for taking part in this job,” Athos said dryly. “Results are the only thing that count.”

“Well in the circumstances it’s not like she can refuse to pay you,” Porthos grinned. “Worst case, she refuses to clean your bathroom any more.”

“It’s not a joke.”

Porthos sighed. “No, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it. I just don’t like to see you worrying about stuff.”

Athos gave a humourless laugh, and drained his wine glass. “You think this is me stressed? You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

\--

That night Constance stayed at her desk until nearly everyone else had gone home, explaining to anyone who asked that she was doing urgent research for a case and would be stuck here for hours yet.

Finally the floor seemed deserted, and she made her way down through the suite of offices, keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might also be working late.

The distant hum of a vacuum cleaner suggested the office cleaner was in, but starting at the other end which was all to the good. 

A couple of lights were on in the partners’ offices but thankfully the one belonging to Jocelyn Warren was dark and empty. He’d gone out to a meeting earlier that afternoon, and she’d checked his schedule to see where he’d gone and how long for. It had seemed unlikely he’d bother coming all the way back to the office afterwards so she should be safe enough. His secretary had gone at five, commiserating with Constance for being stuck there as she’d passed.

The door to Warren’s office was locked, but Constance found a key in the top drawer of his secretary’s desk and let herself in. She lowered the internal blind and only then turned the light on, hoping nobody would notice the office was occupied. 

There was a stack of archive boxes piled against the bookcase in one corner, and investigation revealed to her relief that these were indeed from Overton Drew. Athos had reckoned that the files should only just have been sent over as the estate was still in the process of being settled, and had also hazarded a guess that Warren wouldn’t have bothered to look at them yet. 

She was in luck, the boxes were still taped shut. Chances were that Warren would have them shipped straight off again to the off-site archive store and that would have meant an awkward paper trail if Constance had retrieved them without due cause.

Constance slipped out again, located a pair of scissors and a roll of parcel tape and shut herself back in the office. She set to work, opening up the boxes and digging hastily through the contents, taping each one shut again as she finished with it. 

There were only six in total, but it was hard going as much of the contents comprised old accounts ledgers and bundles of foxed and brittle papers. There was even a rolled tube of something that proved to be a carefully painted family tree. Constance laid it out on the carpet and took a photograph, feeling that it might not be strictly relevant but it was the first thing amongst the musty old papers that was even vaguely interesting. 

Starting to lose hope, in the last box she finally came across the house and land deeds. Taking the bundle out to the photocopier, Constance started scanning them hastily across to her email account. She was almost done when she heard voices in the hall. 

To her horror one of them sounded like Jocelyn Warren, apparently having paused to speak to someone just leaving one of the other offices and thank god raising his voice over the noise of the nearby vacuum cleaner, or she’d never have heard him until it was too late.

She made a dive for his office, slapped off the light switch, closed the door, then realised there was no way she could get past him without being seen.

Grabbing the bundle of documents from the copier Constance ducked out of sight just in time and crawled into the footwell of his secretary’s desk.

Trying to keep as still as a mouse and breathe as quietly as possible, Constance heard footsteps coming closer then an irritated muttering as Warren discovered his office door was unlocked.

Constance winced. The key was still in her pocket, and she hoped she hadn’t inadvertently got his secretary into trouble. The more immediate danger however was to herself – if he noticed the boxes had been tampered with there’d be hell up. 

She tried to picture how she’d left the office – had she put the lid back on the last box? If she had, assuming he hadn’t come back tonight to work on them there was a reasonable chance he wouldn’t notice anything wrong, even though it wasn’t sealed.

Constance had been hoping that Warren would go into his office and close the door, giving her a chance to sneak out. She’d have to find an opportunity to put the bundle of papers back the following day, but that was better than being caught red-handed with them after hours.

Warren, on the other hand, assuming the floor to be mostly deserted had thrown himself into his chair and started making phonecalls, leaving the door wide open. To get out, Constance would have to crawl right past, and his desk faced the door.

She gave a silent sigh, and risked shifting her position to a more comfortable one while he was talking, gambling that his voice would cover any small noises she made. 

When Warren hung up she held her breath, praying that he’d finished for the night and would now leave, but he immediately started another phonecall and she sagged miserably, cursing all lawyers that kept ridiculous working hours. Athos had been the same she remembered, frequently staying in his office until late into the evening. Once she’d found him still there the following morning, asleep with his head on the desk.

To pass the time, and reasonably sure now that she couldn’t be heard, because if Warren was fond of anything it was the sound of his own voice, she started leafing through the rest of the papers. To her surprise, one of the documents proved to be a copy of Feron’s original will. She read it with interest, noting one key point. While he had indeed left everything to Grimaud, there had been stipulations about the disposal of the estate, including that all tenants should be allowed to continue their residency unhindered. It wouldn’t have stopped Grimaud selling everything on and disappearing with the proceeds, but he would have been forced to do so leaving the clause intact for the next owner. 

Constance shook her head. There was something ironic in the fact that the tenants would have been better off if the estate had gone to a murderer after all. The thought struck her that it had been only due to Athos that Grimaud had been found out in the first place, and she hoped he wouldn’t feel responsible now for what Trixie and the others were facing. 

She briefly considered not telling him about the will just in case, but at the same time she knew it was his best chance to overturn the current decision. He could make a case that Feron’s last wishes should be upheld regardless of who inherited. 

Movement in Warren’s office brought her back to the present, and to her relief she heard him turning off the light and locking up. He flicked off the light in the outer office as he left, and Constance was plunged into semi-darkness. She listened carefully to the receding footsteps, and thankfully started to crawl out from under the desk.

“Hello? Anyone still here?” 

Constance froze, thinking she’d been heard. Warren didn’t call out again though, and she’d just started to relax when a series of piercing bleeps made her jump.

“Oh, fuck.” Too late, Constance realised why Warren had called out. Believing himself the last person leaving the office, he’d set the alarm.

From her position under the desk, Constance pictured the alarm panel. It was right next to the front doors, and there were motion sensors in every room. There was a ten second delay before the alarm was triggered, and she tried to work out if she could run to the panel and punch in the code in time. Not a chance. Benet and Shaw took up the whole of the fourteenth floor, and she was almost at the furthest point from reception.

She had a choice, and neither thought was appealing. Walking out would almost certainly trigger the alarm, but she could cancel it reasonably quickly and call the alarm company to explain it was a false activation. But this would automatically be reported back to the law firm, and she didn’t want anyone looking too closely into why she was still here at this hour or why she hadn’t declared her presence when Jocelyn Warren had left. 

The other option, and given her current cramped conditions this was equally grim – was stay where she was all night, until someone opened up in the morning and disarmed the alarm. Then she’d be able to climb out, put all to rights in Warren’s office, leave the key where she’d found it and pretend she’d just come in early. 

Which meant – she looked at her watch – a mere eight or so hours stuck under this desk.

Fuck.

\--

Athos and Porthos were just finishing breakfast the next morning when the doorbell chimed. Athos went to see who it was calling at this early hour, and for the second day running found a harassed looking Aramis outside.

“Athos, sorry to disturb you, I was wondering – is Porthos with you?”

“Yes, he was about to leave for work – is there a problem?” Athos looked at Aramis’ worried expression, and drew his own conclusion. “Oh no – has there been another one?”

“Yes. Another grave opened, last night. It’s just – it’s not so much what’s been taken this time, as – what’s been delivered.”

Ten minutes later all three of them were standing on the edge of a freshly excavated grave, thankfully at the back of the church, out of sight of the road. The coffin had been prised open and old bones were visible beneath a rather more recent addition.

“Well.” Porthos scratched his head. “He looks quite fresh.”

The body was male, white, and middle-aged. He was lying on his back, staring up into space with an affronted sort of expression, as if he’d been in the middle of objecting to something when he’d died. Dried blood was clotted into his hair and across part of his upper face, and Porthos guessed it had been a blow to the head that killed him. Maybe that was what he’d been objecting to.

“Anyone know who he is?”

“Yes,” said Aramis, to their surprise. “His name’s Cedric Parsons. He’s not been in the village long, in fact I’m not sure he’s even technically moved in yet.”

Athos looked up, stunned. “Parsons? As in the bloke who’s just inherited the Manor?”

“What’s this?” Porthos asked, taking out his phone to call it in.

“The man I was telling you about last night. He inherited from Feron. It apparently took them a year to find his nearest living relative.”

“Guess they’d better start looking for another one,” Porthos said. “Any idea why someone might want him dead? Assuming the reverend here didn’t do him in for desecrating one of his graves, anyway.” 

Aramis looked indignant, and Porthos grinned at him unrepentantly. 

“Well - ” Athos frowned. “He’s not been exactly making himself popular, has he?” He explained about the tenants for Aramis’ benefit, and Porthos looked thoughtful. 

“Quite a motive there for wanting him out of the way.”

“You surely don’t suspect Trixie?” Athos protested, and Porthos shrugged.

“People do extreme things in times of stress. But no, alright, maybe not her, but how many other families are in the same boat? How many cottages are we talking about?”

“Four,” Athos admitted. “I’ve spoken to all of them, nobody can afford to stay with the proposed rent increase. But I don’t see any of them killing over it. What was he doing out here in the middle of the night anyway? Was he the graverobber all along?”

“Certainly an interesting question.” Porthos stepped away to make his call, and Athos studied the dead man curiously.

“How did you know who he was?” he asked Aramis. 

“I met him at a parish council meeting just over a month ago. He wanted to submit a planning application and came along to present his proposal, judge the appetite for it.”

“What was it?”

“He wanted to turn the old manor into a hotel.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad.”

“He also wanted to build a holiday village in the grounds. Chalets, swimming pool, that kind of thing. It would have covered the hillside over there. He wanted a lot of trees taken down, and the view from here would have been ruined.” Aramis looked guilty. “I voted against it in the end, but most of the committee were in favour on the grounds it would bring a lot of money into the village.”

“Like they’re on the breadline as it is,” Porthos muttered, coming back to join them. 

“Not everyone here’s a city-slicker,” Athos pointed out. “God, no wonder he wanted people out of those cottages. He’d be raking it in if they were hired out weekly.”

“Who else voted against the application?” Porthos asked.

“It was a blind vote. But there were only three objections. It went through on neighbourhood planning powers, meant he avoided having to take it to the county council.”

“You think you could find out who the other dissenters were?” Porthos asked. 

“Why?” Aramis blinked. “You think one of them did this? To stop him?”

“Somebody wanted him stopped for some reason,” Porthos pointed out. “Exactly how fond are you of that view vicar?”

Aramis looked startled, then rolled his eyes. “Very funny. If I’d killed him I’d hardly have come to fetch you, would I?”

“People have done stranger things,” Porthos declared. “But no, alright. On balance it’s unlikely, when you could have just filled it in again with him down there.”

“It’s an idea though,” said Athos. “If Parsons wasn’t the one digging people up, he might have happened across whoever was. Maybe he was just killed to keep him quiet, and his death’s got nothing to do with his plans for the village.”

“I’ll keep an open mind for now,” Porthos promised. “But I’m going to have to talk to everyone. And the suspect pool seems to be getting bigger by the minute.”

\--

“Dead?” Constance repeated, shocked.

“As a doornail. Or, as a coffin-nail I suppose, in the circumstances,” Athos told her with grim humour. He was reading through the scanned files she’d just emailed him, and his surprising news had thankfully derailed the earful of abuse he’d been suffering at the same time. 

“So it was all for nothing then?” she asked acidly. “Me risking my arse last night?”

“Not at all,” Athos assured her. “I’ve no idea how this leaves things, or who now inherits. This is good stuff you’ve got here, and we may still need to make use of it.” 

“Hmmpf.”

“How _did_ you get out, in the end?” he asked curiously.

“Phoned my friend Valerie who works on reception. She don’t live that far away. Said I’d been in the ladies when the alarm got set, and I was stuck. She came back down and unset it, let me out. I owe her a bottle of wine. No, _you_ owe her a bottle of wine.”

“Make it a good one. And get yourself one while you’re at it,” Athos told her. “Jocelyn didn’t get wind of anything?”

“No, I was back in at six, put everything back where it should be. He’ll never notice.”

“You can’t have got much sleep last night.”

“About four bloody hours. Thinking about it, I reckon you owe me two bottles.”

Athos smiled. “Make it a case.”

\--

The morgue was not one of Porthos’ favourite places to be in December, and he hunched his shoulders against the chill of the ventilation as the pathologist greeted him with what he felt was unwarranted cheerfulness. 

“Blunt force trauma, single blow to the head, front left side, which suggests on balance he was facing his attacker, who swung at him. Probably looking for a right-handed male at least as tall as the deceased. I wouldn’t completely rule out the possibility of a woman, but to kill with one blow she would have to be stronger than average. Murder weapon had a metal edge to it, but wasn’t a blade as such.”

“A shovel?” Porthos suggested.

“That would fit well, yes.”

“He was found in somebody else’s grave,” Porthos said, thinking that this seemed to happen a lot in Owlbrook. “No sign of the spade that was used to dig up the previous occupant, so not a wild stab in the dark to suppose it was the murder weapon.”

“Speaking of whom.” The pathologist turned to a second table, on which was laid out a set of quite different remains. Because the body of the victim had fallen into an open coffin, the skeleton had been brought back as well and was now laid out on the metal autopsy table.

“Male, seventy three years old, one hundred and fifty years deceased, died of natural causes.”

“That’s very specific,” Porthos said, thinking it normally took virtual thumbscrews to get the man to commit to anything. 

“Yes, well I’ve seen a picture of the gravestone.” The pathologist chortled to himself, pleased with his joke and oblivious to Porthos’ growing irritation. “But all is in accordance with my observations. There is one odd thing though.”

“Yes?”

“Well, he’s all present and correct, as he should be, very expensive coffin that would have been at the time. Apart from one leg bone. Which is missing.”

“Maybe he was missing a leg?”

The pathologist gave him a pitying look. “I said _one_ leg bone. The left fibula, to be precise. Tibia all present and correct, as, for that matter, were all the left foot bones. No, this was taken – or lost – post mortem.”

“Wasn’t lost by my lot,” Porthos vowed crossly.

“Then is it possible it was taken by whoever dug him up?”

“That might have been the deceased,” Porthos said. “The other one, I mean.”

“Unlikely.” The pathologist crossed back to the first table and lifted one of the hands. “Smooth as a baby’s proverbial, these hands. If he’d just dug up a coffin six feet down, you’d expect some callousing or blistering, even if he’d worn gloves.”

“And as far as we know, this was the fourth grave dug up in a month.”

“Then I’d say he’s not your man.” The pathologist shrugged. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t pay someone else to do the donkey work of course. But I’m certain at least that this man did not dig his own grave.”

\--

Aramis was leaning against the churchyard wall mournfully watching the last of the forensic team finishing up when Athos wandered round the corner of the church to join him.

“Well, you wanted them to take it seriously,” Athos murmured. As promised, he’d relayed Aramis’ concerns to Porthos the previous night, but as he’d suspected, at the time there hadn’t been much Porthos could do.

Aramis sighed. “This wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

“Had any luck finding out who the others were who voted against him yet?”

Aramis looked shifty. “Actually – I may not have been entirely honest earlier. I already know.”

“And is there a reason you didn’t tell Porthos?”

“He clearly suspects they may have had a hand in this. I know for certain that one of them didn’t, and I don’t want the police harassing he- ” he broke off too late, and Athos raised an eyebrow.

“Her?”

Aramis shook his head. "No offence, but you are in bed with the law, so to speak."

"I can still keep a confidence." Athos considered. "Anne Bourbon's on the parish council, isn't she?" 

Aramis glared at him and Athos smiled back. Bingo. 

“You’re protecting her?”

“Not in the way you mean.” Aramis gave in with a sigh. “I know she’s innocent.”

“I’m sure you trust her - ”

“No, I _know_ she’s innocent. I was with her last night,” Aramis confessed reluctantly.

“All night?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

“So there’s no point in disturbing her, is there?” Aramis said firmly. Athos shrugged non-committally. 

"That accounts for two votes. Who was the third? Or was it a threesome last night?"

Aramis snorted. "Jasper Palmer. Elderly gentleman, he’s lived in the village all his life and was never going to take well to change. Voted no purely on principle, I think. Can't see that he stood to gain or lose anything whichever way it went in the end."

“Here’s the thing,” said Athos. “I’ve just been to see Trixie and the others. They’re all under suspicion because of this, the whole terrace is being questioned by the police. If I can prove Parsons was killed because he disturbed a graverobber, it’ll clear them. Which means I need to figure out who’s been doing it and why.”

Aramis gave a short laugh. “I should have just hired you to investigate in the first place. Maybe Parsons would still be alive.”

“And still about to evict everyone,” Athos mused. “Mr Drew implied probate hadn’t quite been finalised yet. I wonder whether the paperwork’s gone through and everything now goes to Parson’s next of kin or whether it’ll revert to Feron’s line. Might not be the same thing.”

“You’re thinking Parsons might have a murderously impatient son or something?”

“That’ll be for Porthos and his team to determine,” Athos said. “What I’m interested in right now is who was digging up your graves.”

\--

Armed with a scribbled list of the details and locations provided by Aramis, Athos walked down to the cottage and hesitated next to his car. Porthos had been helping him get his confidence back lately by riding shotgun, but it had been an awfully long time since Athos had driven anywhere alone. 

He got behind the wheel, trying not to hyperventilate. As he waited for a lorry to pass the gate someone bent to look in his window and he jumped violently. 

"Thought that was you.” It was Sylvie on her way home. “Everything okay?" she asked, noticing how tightly his hands were clamped on the wheel.

"Fine," Athos lied, then had an idea. "You busy?” 

“Free agent, me. Afternoon off.”

“Don't suppose you fancy a road trip?"

\--

A couple of unilluminating hours later, they had surveyed the recently reinstated graves of one Lady Mary Billington at St Michael's church in the suburbs of Crossley, and of Mr Simon Bonder esq. at St Martin's church in Hangate. Having reached Mayfield St Margaret just as the light was fading, Athos was currently crouched in front of a carved skull and crossbones denoting the last resting place of Mr Timothy Leinster, beloved son of Duncan and Georgina Leinster (née Palmer).

“Palmer. I’ve heard that name somewhere recently,” Athos murmured, tracing the letters with his finger.

“Might’ve been from me?” Sylvie had found a bench out of the wind at the side of the church and was blowing on cold fingers.

“No - ” Athos slapped his knee. “I know. Member of the Owlbrook parish council.”

“Doesn’t mean anything. The area’s full of Palmers. You could throw a stone in any boneyard in the county and hit six. There’s three different lots living in Owlbrook alone.”

“Oh.” Athos felt deflated. It had been a pleasant enough afternoon, but the graves hadn’t suggested any more connection to him than they had to Aramis.

“Your Wilfred was one,” Sylvie added as an afterthought.

“What?

“Your man Wilfred. Wilfred Palmer, he was. I thought you knew.”

\--

Back in Owlbrook, Athos went looking. The man had been buried long before Aramis had taken over as priest in charge, but as Athos knew the approximate year of his death, he was able to point him in the right direction. Even in the dark, he found it with a torch in about ten minutes, a discreet little plaque marking a cremation. 

_Wilfred Horace Palmer  
1907 – 1994  
Until we meet again._

\--

It was late before Athos heard the front door go that evening, and he came out to meet Porthos in the hallway. 

“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” he murmured, as Porthos hugged him hello, hoping he didn’t sound needy.

“I’d’ve let you know if I wasn’t,” Porthos promised. “A murder investigation always means late hours.” He checked the time and winced. “Sorry, hadn’t realised it was quite _that_ late. Nearly your bed-time, eh?”

“What, you’re my mother now?”

“No point in setting a routine if you don’t stick to it,” Porthos reminded him.

Athos shrugged. “That’s my problem.”

“It was my fault you got fucked up again,” Porthos said quietly. “I don’t want to make it harder for you than it has to be.”

“You didn’t force me to start taking them again,” Athos said, looking away. “It was my choice.”

“But only because of what I did.”

“Let’s leave the martyrdom at the door shall we?” Athos suggested. “There’s only room for one self-flagelating fuck-up in this house and I was here first.” He took Porthos’ hand. “Come on, I’m good for an hour or so yet, and I’ve got things to tell you. And I’m guessing you’re hungry?”

“Starving.” Porthos let himself be towed willingly into the kitchen, where Athos had been keeping the rest of a casserole warm for him. Athos poured them both a drink and sat watching him eat.

“How’s the case going?”

Porthos made a non-committal noise through a mouthful of bread. “Parsons was definitely killed at the grave, probably by the shovel that dug it, which we still haven’t found. Not noticeably closer to finding out _why_ he was killed. He doesn’t seem to have been a particularly popular man, but none of his business associates knew of any actual threats being made. He had no children, so it’s not immediately obvious who’s going to inherit.” Porthos chuckled. “That solicitor’s doing his nut.”

“Jocelyn Warren?” Athos enquired, with a prickle of anxiety that Constance’s espionage might have been uncovered. To his relief Porthos shook his head.

“Who? No, Drew is it? The one in the village. Balding, porn-stache. Him. Anyway, he’s back to square one and has to find another beneficiary.”

“Interesting.”

“Pain in the arse more like,” Porthos grumbled. “I was hoping for a nice clean motive. What else? Parsons had two ex-wives, both of whom d’Artagnan had the pleasure of interviewing today. He reckons both of them would quite happily have clouted the man round the head with a shovel, but neither had opportunity or the physical capability.”

“They could have paid someone.”

“Neither stood to gain anything by it, other than fleeting personal satisfaction. No, I think this must’ve had something to do with his plans for the village. Spent most of the afternoon speaking to the tenants who’re facing eviction.”

“Surely they’re not serious suspects?”

“It’s a question of eliminating them more than anything,” Porthos admitted. He lowered his fork, looking glum. “You know the kids on that row? Trixie’s two, and Mags at the end? They were down that hole with me. They trusted me. And now here I am questioning their parents about a murder. You should have seen the looks on their faces.”

Athos reached over and took his hand. “You’ll clear them. And they’ll trust you again.”

“Maybe.” Porthos gave him a watery smile, and Athos frowned. 

“You don’t really suspect any of them do you?”

“The schoolteachers are out of it, they were both staying overnight in Crossley with his mum, who’d just had an operation. Don’t see Trixie or Geraldine having the physical strength it would have taken, for either the murder or digging the grave up in the first place. Assuming it was the same person, anyway.” Porthos sighed. “I bloody hope there aren’t three people in this, we’ll never untangle it. Anyway, where was I? The old man’s practically bedridden, he’s out. So the only half-way feasible candidates are his son, Sam, works for the Forestry Commission, he physically could have done it. And - ” he stopped, looking awkward.

“Bill Evans,” Athos finished for him.

“Yeah.” Porthos finished his meal and carried his plate over to the sink. 

“Are you sure Parsons wasn’t the graverobber himself?” Athos asked. 

“Unlikely. His hands showed no sign of any recent manual labour. There were no blisters or anything. He might’ve started out as a builder, but he obviously hadn’t been on the tools for years. Looks more like he might have interrupted the crime in progress, although that still don’t explain what he was doing in a graveyard in the middle of the night himself.”

“I’ve been looking into it today, and for the life of me I can’t see a connection between the four graves,” Athos told him. “Have there been any other instances?”

“No. I had Elodie check, these have been the only four reported in the country, for years.” Porthos frowned. “You be careful. There’s a murderer out there somewhere, you shouldn’t be poking your nose in.”

“You don’t want to hear what I’ve found out then?”

Porthos sat down again and gave him an exasperated look. “Thought you said the graves were a dead end? If you’ll pardon the expression.”

“The graves, yes, so far. But Aramis has come up with one of the names of the other people who voted against Parsons’ planning application.” 

“Go on?”

“Jasper Palmer. Local man, Aramis thought he’d pretty much voted no out of spite. Sounds too old to be a likely candidate, but you wanted to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Porthos looked thoughtful. “No luck with the second name?”

“He’s – working on it,” Athos said carefully. He was reasonably certain that Lady Anne wasn’t the killer they were looking for, so for now would keep Aramis’ secret – but he resolved to have another go at persuading him to speak up, if only so Porthos wasn’t wasting time on it.

Wanting to distract Porthos from that particular train of thought, Athos slid across the table the list of graves that Aramis had given him. “I’m sure you’ve got these on file already, but I made a few extra notes.”

“You visited them all?” Porthos asked, then looked up at him. “You drove?”

“Sylvie came with me,” Athos explained. “She makes an excellent wingman.”

“Huh.” Porthos studied the list, debating whether to tell Athos about the missing leg bone. It couldn’t hurt, and having Athos looking for the graveyard connection would free up his team to pursue more active avenues of enquiry. 

“So – there was one thing of interest the pathologist came up with?”

\--


	3. Chapter 3

“A leg bone?” Aramis looked startled. “Why would anyone go to all that trouble just to take a single bone?”

“No idea. I was hoping you might.” Athos had tracked him down in the vestry the next morning, thankfully alone. Given past experience, he’d been careful to knock.

“Some kind of trophy?” Aramis wondered. “Token proof that it had been done, perhaps?” 

“You think they were digging to order? Surely not just for a bet or a dare. Not four of them.”

“This last one was the grave of Feron’s grandfather. Hell of a coincidence that the man who inherited his estate was killed there, don’t you think?”

“But what were they looking for?” Athos sighed, at a loss. “Do you think someone was perhaps buried with something, only they don’t know exactly which grave? An heirloom, or some papers or something?” He stopped, taken with the idea. What if someone had been buried with the original deeds to the cottages, proving their legal standing? Except that pointed the finger firmly back at -

“Trixie.” 

“What?” Athos looked up in surprise that Aramis had echoed what he was thinking, then realised he was looking behind him. He turned to find Trixie standing in the doorway, in floods of tears.

“What is it, what’s happened?” Athos asked, alarmed.

She blinked at him, sniffing helplessly through the tears. “They’ve arrested Bill.”

“What? Why?”

“They’re saying he killed Mr Parsons, but he didn’t, he didn’t!”

“Alright, come here, sit down, that’s it. Tell me everything. Who arrested him?” Surely not Porthos, Athos thought, he’d left him barely two hours ago and he’d given no indication they were anywhere near making an arrest.

“I don’t know, some plainclothes detective, he was horrible. Marcher?”

“Marcheaux?”

“Yes, that was it. He hauled him off in front of the children, he handcuffed him and everything, Athos what am I going to do?”

“Leave it with me. Let me make some calls, then I’ll get over there. It’s going to be alright, you hear me?” Athos told her. “We can fix this. But first I need you to tell me some things.”

\--

For the second time that week Athos found himself putting on a suit. It felt strangely like donning a suit of armour, and when he was standing before the beady eye of the desk sergeant at Crossley police station three quarters of an hour later, he was glad he'd taken the time to change.

He was half-way through explaining why he was there when Marcheaux crossed the reception area behind him and did a double take.

"If you’ve come for a playdate, the Inspector's rather busy just now," Marcheaux sneered.

"I’m not here for Porthos. I’m here for William Evans." Athos folded his arms. "I’m his solicitor."

\--

Marcheaux made a point of walking him via the CID suite, and Athos was acutely conscious of the curious stares he was drawing. Several people there knew he was Porthos' partner, and it wasn't long before the ripple of murmured surprise reached the inspector's office.

Porthos appeared in the doorway looking startled, and followed them down the corridor towards the interview rooms.

"Athos? What the hell are you doing here?" he asked in an urgent undertone.

"I understand from Trixie that Bill Evans has been brought in this morning. I was asked to represent the family, so here I am. It's not complicated."

"You were asked to represent them on a property matter, not a murder charge!"

"What difference does it make? I'm obligated."

"You're making this difficult for me Athos."

"Well you’re making it _quite_ difficult for Bill Evans, so I suggest you get used to it." Athos held his gaze defiantly. "Now can I see him please?"

Porthos reluctantly nodded to Marcheaux, who'd watched the muted exchange with open amusement. He escorted Athos down to the holding cells and told the duty officer to bring them both up to interview room 2 when they were ready or in five minutes max, whichever was the shorter.

Bill Evans was both astonished and relieved to see Athos, and gripped his hands fervently.

"Don't worry," Athos reassured him. "We can sort this. What I need to know is have you actually been charged yet?"

"No. No, they just said they were bringing me in for questioning."

"Good, that makes things easier. Now whatever they say to you in there I want you to stay silent, okay? Don't give them any opportunity to twist your words. Let me do the talking."

"But I haven't done anything!"

"Good. Still don't say anything," Athos advised firmly.

"They said they can hold me for 24 hours?" 

Athos shook his head. "I'll have you out of here in no time. Just trust me, okay?"

They were taken upstairs to where Porthos and Marcheaux were already waiting. From Marcheaux's irritated side-long looks Athos guessed he hadn't bargained on Porthos' presence during the interview with his prime suspect, and was glad the man's transparent attempt to stir up trouble between them had backfired on him. Whether it had also succeeded remained to be seen.

The formalities taken care of, Athos got in first on the basis that attack was better than defence.

"I understand my client is suspected of the murder of Cedric Parsons. Before we go any further I'd like to know on exactly what basis you're holding him?"

"The man was about to evict him," Marcheaux said flatly. "Being made homeless from what sounds like a pretty cushy arrangement is a damn good motive."

"And one shared by a considerable number of other people. I asked why you suspect my client in particular."

"Of all the tenants, he's the only one with the motive, the physical capability, and the opportunity," Marcheaux expanded, starting to sound smugly confident. "Sam Dinsdale was supervising an overnight logging consignment when the murder took place, and he was the only other contender."

"Whereas my client was at home with his wife all night. A fact she will swear to." 

Marcheaux leaned across the table, grinning like a fox who'd just been given the key to the henhouse.

"But Mr Evans is a postman. He left for work at four thirty am. The body was discovered just before eight thirty. Plenty of time for him to excavate the grave and kill Mr Parsons, I'd say."

"Mr Evans is indeed a postman," Athos agreed. "And the briefest of phonecalls to the Crossley sorting office reveals that he arrived for work on time as usual that day at ten to five, a fact that can easily be backed up by the cctv in their loading bay. Mr Evans delivers to several of the local villages, ending his round in Owlbrook round about lunchtime, depending on traffic. A brief survey of local businesses suggests they all received their post on time that morning, and reported Mr Evans to be in reasonably good spirits."

"Which businesses?" Porthos asked, interjecting for the first time.

"Langton and Grant Estate Agents, and The Wiccan Well."

"Sylvie and Ninon in other words. Both friends of yours."

"Are you suggesting they're both lying? They had no idea why I was asking, and they're not particularly fond of each other, so it's unlikely they're in cahoots. But they were merely the most likely to answer my question without needing lengthy explanations. I have no doubt you will canvass other businesses. I merely hold this up as proof Mr Evans completed his round as usual that morning, and on time. Making it impossible for him to also have time to dig up the grave of Geoffrey Feron."

Athos mustered his thoughts, another idea occurring to him. "Also, I would ask you to consider the fact that Mr Evans' hands show no sign of recent manual labour. A postman needs a certain amount of stamina it's true, but the job itself is not especially physically rough." 

He gestured to Bill, who hesitantly displayed his hands palm up on the table. As Athos had gathered when Bill had grasped his hands outside, they were free of blisters and callouses. 

"These are not the hands of a man who's just dug up a coffin, much less four of them in a short space of time."

"He could still have killed Parsons," Marcheaux argued. "He might have seen him over the wall, and nipped in. Spur of the moment."

"I'm sorry, a minute ago the basis of your argument was that my client had the time to carry out the excavations himself. Quite apart from the fact the grave site was to the rear of the church, making it unlikely he'd have seen anyone there from the road, they’d never met, making it impossible that Mr Evans would have recognised him if he had. And I would refer you again, to the fact Mr Evans was reported to be in relatively good spirits that morning. Are you suggesting he ran into the churchyard, disposed of Mr Parsons, and cheerfully finished his round? Or does that sound as preposterous to you as it does to me?"

There was a loaded silence from the other side of the table. Porthos stared hard at him for a long time, then turned to Marcheaux with an interrogative tilt of his chin, inviting him to progress his argument. 

Marcheaux though knew he was beaten, and gave an angrily tight shake of the head. "No more questions."

Porthos took a deep breath. "Then, Mr Evans, it appears for now you are free to go."

\--

Outside the room Bill Evans was effusive in his stunned thanks and Athos would have walked out with him but Porthos appeared behind them in the corridor. 

"Athos. A word."

"I'll catch up with you later," Athos promised, and turned to face the music. Porthos, he could tell, was spitting feathers. 

"You bastard. You absolute bastard. You used what I told you in confidence about the state of the hands on that corpse," Porthos hissed, looking round to make sure they weren't overheard.

"If it was valid for poor dead Cedric, then it’s got to be valid for Bill," Athos shot back. "And I never let on you’d told me a thing." 

"What are you even doing here Athos?" Porthos asked exasperatedly. "We could have provided Evans with counsel if he couldn't afford one."

"Oh yeah, I know exactly how good a provincial crown brief’s likely to be."

"Provincial? Are you _better_ than me now then?" Porthos demanded, stung by the implication.

"I guarantee I’m better than your tame lawyers. I may not have much confidence left, but I’m dead certain of that."

"Is that what this is?" Porthos jibed. "You need to feel like you’re important again?"

"Am I only of interest to you when I’m broken? Is that why you’re pissed off, because I’m proving I’ve still got it?"

"I’m pissed off because you seem to be assuming Evans wouldn’t have got a fair hearing without you here."

"Would you have even sat in on that interview if I hadn’t turned up, or would you have left it to Marcheaux?"

"He may be a fairly repellent human being, but he’s a competent enough copper."

"He had no grounds for bringing Bill in, and you know it. What did he do Porthos, to get sent back here from the Met?"

"I’m not telling you that. I’m sure as shit not telling you while you’ve got a grudge against him. Who knows when it would come back to bite me across an interview table?"

At an impasse they glared at each other, hostile and mutually frustrated. 

"See you later then?" Athos finally ventured, hoping it was only his imagination that made it sound like his voice was less than steady.

Porthos stared at him impassively for what felt like the longest second of Athos’ life before sighing. "Yeah. Course."

Athos nodded, trying not to let the relief show on his face. He made for the door, only to hesitate and turn back. "I’m sorry. I really wasn’t trying to step on your toes."

"Go home Athos. Just – go home."

\--

Athos had made it as far as reception before he was stopped again, this time by Marcheaux.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" 

"Not especially," Athos replied tiredly. "I just bothered to do the minimum checking up on his whereabouts."

"So where were you that night?"

"Excuse me?" Athos stared at him, wrongfooted.

"If it wasn't Evans it has to be someone. You were working for them, right? First case you'd taken on for a while, you'd want to get a result. Maybe you were having problems getting that legally. Maybe you decided to take direct action."

"If you're asking for an alibi, I had company that night. I believe you've met him," said Athos coldly. 

"The inspector strikes me as a heavy sleeper. Would he have noticed if you'd popped out? You live quite close to the church don't you? Conveniently so, some might say." 

"I'd taken a sedative, I was dead to the world. Hardly in a state to be gallivanting around graveyards."

"So what you're saying is you don't actually remember anything from that night?"

"I think I'd've remembered killing someone."

"Would you though? You've had mental health problems, haven't you?" 

Athos swallowed. "Are you formally charging me? No? I didn't think so. In which case I have nothing more to say to you." He turned and walked away, feeling Marcheaux's glare burning into the back of his head.

\--

Outside Athos got into his car and just sat there for several minutes until his hands stopped shaking. Once he'd finally calmed down it only then occurred to him that he'd driven all the way out here on his own. He'd been so preoccupied and in such a rush that he hadn't thought about it once.

Now he just had to get home again. Trying to work up the courage and telling himself that he'd done the trip once today and therefore was perfectly capable, Athos finally noticed Bill Evans wandering through the car park on his phone and with considerable relief hailed him to offer a lift.

\--

That evening Athos awaited Porthos in a state of increasing nerves. He was clear in his own mind that he'd done nothing wrong but that didn't mean Porthos saw it that way, and he'd been visibly angry earlier. Athos' work had driven a wedge between them once before, and while Porthos had promised to never let it happen again, Athos knew there could be a wide gulf between theory and practice.

Despite Porthos' earlier words Athos wondered if he would even come at all, more than half-expecting the text that would tell him Porthos had decided to spend the night in his own flat in Crossley, so much nearer the police station and more convenient for the late hours a murder case required.

By the time he heard Porthos' key in the lock he was on his third large whisky, and had to rest the glass on the kitchen counter to disguise the tremor in his hand.

Porthos appeared in the doorway, and came slowly into the room. 

"I just want to make one thing perfectly clear," he said gravely.

Athos swallowed, making himself put down his drink and giving a tight nod. "Go on."

"I have never – not once – thought of you as broken."

Athos stared at him, the import of his words slowly sinking in. He tried to speak but had difficulty catching his breath and seeing this Porthos immediately folded him into his arms, holding him tightly. He could feel the way Athos was shaking, and said nothing until his breathing had steadied and the fingers twisted convulsively into the sleeve of his shirt had relaxed again.

"You alright?" Porthos asked quietly. Athos gave a jerky nod, not yet trusting himself to speak but drawing strength from the embrace, which was steadily grounding him. Eventually he pulled back, calmer.

"Are you angry with me?" Athos asked in a low voice, having to know despite the reassuring tone of Porthos' opening words.

"No." Porthos shook his head. "You were just doing your job. I admit, it took me a moment to see that."

"I never meant to imply you wouldn't give him a fair hearing. If there'd been time to discuss it with you beforehand – but everything moved so fast."

"Marcheaux told me what he said to you, afterwards. For the record, you are _not_ a suspect," Porthos said heavily.

Athos nodded, relieved. "I don’t think he likes me."

"You made him look like a dick today, he’s hardly going to want to be pen-pals." Porthos studied Athos’ still rather white face, and cocked his head. “You sure you’re okay?”

Athos moved back into his arms, wrapping his arms snugly around Porthos’ waist. “Yes. If we are?”

“Always.” Porthos kissed his forehead. “How did it feel? Being back in the saddle, as it were?”

Athos considered. “Good, while it was happening. I think it must have been the adrenaline, it just carried me along on a wave of it. Maybe made me a bit more bullish than I need’ve been,” he added apologetically.

Porthos gave him a squeeze. “Don’t second guess yourself. You did fine. Do Marcheaux good to be taken down a peg or two, just don’t tell him I said that.”

Athos smiled. “It was afterwards, that it hit me,” he said softly. “I nearly went to pieces in the car park. Reaction, I guess. Maybe I’m not quite as together as I made out.” 

“Shit.” Porthos winced, realising he’d essentially turned his back on Athos in a vulnerable moment, albeit unwittingly. “You should have called me. I’d’ve come out. Driven you home.”

“I was fine,” Athos promised. “After a bit. And I had Bill with me, to drive back with.” He looked up at Porthos to gauge his reaction. “Is he still a suspect?”

"Nah, I really don't think he's our man.” Porthos sighed. “Maybe I'll get on to Aramis again, see if he's had any luck scaring up that other nay-sayer.”

"Mmn."

Porthos took in Athos’ shifty expression and narrowed his eyes. "Athos, do you already know who it is?"

"Possibly."

"Athos..."

"Aramis is adamant it couldn't have been them. For a good reason."

“How about you let me be the judge of that?”

“There is such a thing as client confidentiality you know.”

“You’re not representing Aramis!” Porthos objected, then looked abruptly suspicious. “Are you?”

“No,” Athos conceded. “But I did promise him I wouldn’t tell.”

“Look, I don’t want to ask you to break a confidence,” Porthos said more reasonably. “But I suggest you try and make him see that I am obliged to find out who it is. And if I have to jump through all kinds of hoops to get there when he could have just told me, then I’m likely to be a lot less well-disposed towards them than I might otherwise have been, you get me?”

Athos nodded. “I’ll speak to Aramis again,” he promised. “And – I know you can’t take my word for it, but I really don’t think it’s someone you need to be worrying about.”

\--

The next morning Athos invited Aramis in for coffee, hoping to change his mind about keeping quiet, or at the very least extricate himself from his own promise to keep silent. 

The Feron estate papers he’d printed out were still spread over the kitchen table and Aramis looked through them with interest while Athos was busy with the kettle.

“Do I detect an ulterior motive?” Aramis asked, as Athos brought the cafetiere over and sat down. “You’ve never been much of a one for socialising before.” He sounded amused rather than suspicious, and Athos gave him a sheepish smile.

“It’s Porthos. He’s determined to find out who the other person was that voted against Parsons, and – now he knows I know.”

“Did you tell him?” Aramis asked, sounding resigned.

“No. But if I don’t, he’s going to keep digging. He’s – indicated that he’d be willing to tread softly, if you were co-operative,” Athos added carefully. 

“There are complications,” sighed Aramis. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t. Anne’s a widow. Her husband’s been in the ground for a whole year now. Is it really such an issue if you’re known to be seeing each other?”

Aramis looked awkward. “There was a certain amount of rumour going round about us a while ago. We both strenuously denied it at the time. To be seen together now – his family would jump to conclusions. They could make trouble for her.”

“What kind of trouble? What difference does it make now?”

Aramis stirred sugar into his coffee, buying a little time while he debated whether to trust Athos. “She has a child,” he said finally. “A son.”

Athos studied him, but Aramis wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Is it yours?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh come on - ” 

“No. Really, I don’t. I swear.”

“Does she?”

“She says not. They were trying for a child – it’s fifty-fifty.”

“Don’t you care?” Athos asked, taken aback by the fact someone could let something so important go unsettled. 

“What do you think?” Aramis retorted, and the pain in his eyes when he finally met Athos’ gaze spoke volumes. “Louis inherited a huge amount. If it was proven he’s mine - ” 

“You might be taking the silver spoon from his mouth,” Athos finished for him.

“It’s the wording of the will, you see. Louis – senior – decreed everything to be divided equally between any children he had at the time of his death. Presumably he was hoping for more than one, and couldn’t be bothered to keep updating it,” Aramis said bitterly. “But it means that if it came out the boy wasn’t his – well, Louis’ family never liked Anne. They’d fight tooth and nail to take it all away from her, claim that they should have inherited instead.” Aramis looked guilty. “Technically, they may not be wrong.”

“Is it really such a big deal as all that?” Athos persisted, puzzled. “If the boy’s yours, and you and Anne want to make a life together – then can’t you, and just damn the lot of them?”

Aramis gave him a rueful smile. “Anne received nothing directly, under the terms of the will. Have you seen the house they live in? Would you give up all that for a vicar’s stipend and a church-owned seventies semi?”

“If I loved the person enough, I’d like to think so,” Athos said carefully. 

“And would you also take it all away from your son? I could never hope to give him such a life or an education that he’ll get as things stand.”

“Surely it’s better to be the loved son of an impoverished vicar than a rich kid with no father?” Athos argued, thinking of Porthos and how he regretted having lost his own family so early. 

“I don’t know that he is mine,” Aramis said glumly. “And Anne’s too scared of the family hearing about it to risk having any tests done.”

“I’m fairly sure you can do it with a swab by post these days. There’s no reason anyone would – ” Athos broke off, staring into space. “Wait. That’s it.”

“What is?”

“Why dig up four local graves? Why take nothing but a bone? What could you do with it? What could you _get_ from it?”

“DNA,” Aramis said, catching on. 

“Exactly. What if all the graves had a bone taken from them. Would you have noticed?”

“No. Not if it was small. The skull and larger bones were all present, we were just concerned with getting them re-interred as quickly and discreetly as possible.”

Athos sifted hurriedly through the papers on the table. “Look at this. The Feron family tree. Stretches back generations. Look at the names on some of the branches. Billington. Bonder. Palmer. Ring any bells?”

“Some of the disturbed graves?” Aramis supplied.

“All of them. Timothy Leinster’s mother was a Palmer,” Athos said triumphantly. 

“It’s different people though.”

“Doesn’t matter. The _individuals_ don’t matter. It’s the families.” Athos stared at him in dawning realisation. “Whoever was digging up those graves wasn’t looking for treasure. They were looking for a bloodline.”

\--

Once Aramis had gone, Athos walked down to the village and into the offices of Overton Drew. He wasn’t sure Stephen Drew would agree to see him, but when the receptionist phoned through to his surprise he was waved straight in.

Mr Drew was standing beside his desk, looking stern. 

“Mr la Fère. You weren’t entirely honest with me, were you? You lead me to believe you were working for Benet and Shaw.”

“I’m sort of between contracts at the moment,” Athos admitted. 

“Indeed. In fact, I understand from Mr Warren that they recently sent you a contract renewal which you never returned. You misrepresented yourself.”

Athos took this on the chin. “And for that, I apologise, and I wont take up any more of your time. But my client’s husband is now suspected of murder, and I have just one question for you. I don’t think you’ll be breaking any confidences to answer it. When you were looking for Feron’s heir – were there any other candidates besides Mr Parsons? Perhaps locally?”

Drew hesitated. “Now you come to mention it there was one gentleman. I’m not sure how this helps.”

“It might. Please.”

“Rather an impoverished family these days, but he claimed his mother had always told him he was a direct descendent of Feron’s great-grandfather. A by-blow, at the time, but that wouldn’t especially matter in the circumstances.”

“Making him a more direct descendent than Parsons?”

“Yes, but the problem was he couldn’t prove it. Someone born the wrong side of the sheets, there was never any official record made of the father. We couldn’t bestow an inheritance based on family rumour alone.”

“But if he could show a genetic link?”

“Then that would have been adequate.”

“Who was it?”

Drew looked cautious. “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“Would you prefer to tell the police? Because I can have an inspector and his team here in under half an hour with lots of uniforms and flashy lights. Would that be good for your business Mr Drew?”

“There’s no need to be so aggressive.” Drew produced something that might almost have been a smile. “It was a Mr Palmer. Jasper Palmer. He lives here in the village, although I’m not sure of the exact address.”

\--

Mind whirling, when Athos left the office he dashed up the street to the estate agents. Sylvie looked up in surprise as the door banged open, then rolled her eyes when she saw who it was.

“Always in a rush, you are. What is it today, more postmen?”

“Sorry.” Athos gave her a lopsided smile. “No, not today. When we were at St Margaret’s, you started to say I might have heard the name Palmer from you. I don’t think you’d mentioned him before, but why did you think you might have? And was it Jasper?”

“Yeah.” Sylvie frowned. “Jasper Palmer’s the man selling the old aviary.”

\--


	4. Chapter 4

Armed with Palmer’s address, Athos called Porthos as he walked, intending to update him on what he’d found out, but it went straight to answerphone and all he could do was leave a message. 

“Porthos, it’s me. I think I know why those graves were being dug up, I think someone was trying to prove a family connection to Feron. They were looking for genetic material for testing, I guess there can’t be all that many labs that do that sort of thing, you’re probably better placed than me to find out which one he was using. Anyway, Feron’s solicitor reckons Jasper Palmer was making noises about being in line to inherit, so I’m trying to track him down now, see what he knows. From Aramis’ description he sounds fairly elderly, so I guess if he is implicated he must’ve had an accomplice to do the digging? Whatever went wrong that night, I’m hoping by now he’ll be having second thoughts about shielding a murderer. If I find anything out, I’ll let you know. Uh – my battery’s about to die on me, I’ll speak to you later, bye.” 

A few minutes later Athos was knocking on the door of one of the almshouses. Despite trying for some time there was no answer, and Athos realised there was one other place the man might be. He shivered at the thought of going back to the aviary, but it wasn’t far and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least see if the gate was open. If it was all locked up, he could safely go home and try again later.

When he got there the gate in the wall was closed, but he tried the latch anyway and to his consternation it clicked open under his hand. Cautiously, he stepped inside.

\--

Porthos came out of the morning’s briefing to find he’d just missed a call from Athos. Listening to the message he’d left didn’t improve his mood any, and he immediately tried to ring back. There was no answer.

“Athos what the fuck are you up to,” he muttered. “I told you not to get involved in anything risky.”

He was debating what to do when the phone rang in his hand. Assuming at first it was Athos, the number displayed was an unfamiliar mobile and he frowned.

“Du Vallon.”

“Inspector, it’s Aramis d’Herblay. I’ve found something out this morning, and I was going to tell Athos but he’s not at the cottage and not answering his phone and I think someone should know. I spoke with my predecessor this morning, he likes to catch up on parish business every now and then.”

“That’s nice,” Porthos growled, managing with some difficulty not to tell him to get to the fucking point.

“Anyway, I was telling him about the goings on here, and he told me something that might be significant. Jasper Palmer used to be his gravedigger.”

\--

Porthos strode into the main office with a face like thunder. “Did anyone speak with Jasper Palmer yet?” Staring pointedly at Marcheaux, who immediately looked defensive. 

“I went round there yesterday, but there was no-one in.”

“And you’ve not tried again? No, you were too busy harassing innocent parties,” Porthos finished for him in disgust, struggling into his coat. “Get down there, now. All of you. I think he’s our man.”

\--

“Hello?” Athos moved between the rotting cages looking for signs of life. “Is there anyone here?”

The place hadn’t got any less creepy, and without the cheerfully practical Sylvie by his side it felt more ominous than ever. 

A loud alarm call behind him made him jump, but it was only a blackbird diving into cover at his passing. He scolded himself for being jumpy, and pressed on. 

It was hard to get a feel for how big the place was; it was surrounded on three sides by the backs of buildings, with the alleyway to the east behind a high wall, but the trees and wild growth that had burst out of the disintegrating bird frames made it feel like he was buried in a miniature jungle.

Turning a corner Athos realised with a shudder he was on the same path where he’d had such an unnerving experience a few days previously. It was deserted, and he was about to give it a miss when something caught his eye.

A little way down the path, the earth in what had once been a neat flower border was freshly turned. It seemed an incongruous note in such an abandoned place, and too large a disturbance to be caused by some kind of digging animal.

Athos crouched down beside the bed and frowned. Had something been dug up here? Or – or buried?

He reached out and dug away the soil with his hands, delving into the earth with the sudden conviction that there was something important here. After a moment his fingers brushed something hard and smooth and rounded and he snatched his hand away, remembering that somebody had been digging up skeletons. Was this was where the missing parts had ended up? 

Carefully he brushed away more of the earth and gradually uncovered what turned out to be not a leg bone after all but a wooden shaft. Following it to the end, Athos found himself looking at the handle and metal blade of a large shovel. 

“Oh shit,” he muttered under his breath. This had to be the murder weapon they’d all been looking for. Why else bury it? And that presumably meant -

“Who’s there?” The imperious voice came from close by and Athos stood up, hurriedly kicking earth back over the shovel and wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers.

He’d only managed to get a few paces away when a man came round the end of the path and stared at him. Athos saw immediately that at least one of his assumptions about the man – if this was indeed Palmer – had been wrong. He might have been well into his seventies but there was nothing frail about him. He looked tough and sinewy, as if life had hardened him into sheer concentrated malice.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Jasper Palmer? My name’s Athos de la Fère. I’m a solicitor. I’ve been asked to look again at the feasibility of your claim to the Feron estate, in light of the recent death of Mr Parsons.” 

Gambling that greed would overrule any lingering suspicions the man might have. Athos had the instinctive and overwhelming sense that he was looking at Parson’s murderer, and he had to keep the man on friendly terms long enough to get back to a public place. Coming here alone may not have been the smartest idea he’d ever had, and he could already tell he was going to get a bollocking from Porthos. Assuming he lived long enough.

“Is that right?” Palmer was beginning to look eager, but still wary with it. 

“Perhaps we could go somewhere to discuss it?” Athos suggested brightly. “You are Mr Palmer, I take it?”

“Aye, that’s me. And that estate’s mine by rights, I’m telling you.” 

“Then we shall be very pleased to confirm that for you.”

“Bout time somebody took me seriously,” said Palmer grudgingly, then held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Athos shook it automatically, then froze at the same time Palmer did. Athos’ hand was still smeared with earth, and Palmer’s grip on him became suddenly fierce, as he looked beyond Athos to where the hastily re-covered shovel lay.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that, boy,” Palmer said quietly. “You really shouldn’t.”

Athos finally succeeded in wrenching his hand out of Palmer’s grasp and backed up a step. He felt in his pocket for his phone, then remembered with a sinking heart it was flat. 

“You were the one digging up all those graves,” he said, figuring the game was up and the best thing he could do was keep the man talking. “You’ve been trying to prove your connection. I did a quick bit of research this morning, commercial laboratory services. They’re not cheap. Is that why you had to sell this place?”

Palmer scowled. “Last bit of capital I had left. Not that it was good for anything else. Took this away from me they did, just like everything else in life.”

Athos eyed him with distaste, remembering the aviary had been shut down for animal cruelty. 

“How the hell were you going to explain the DNA results assuming you got them?” he asked curiously. “People would know then that it was you desecrating those graves.”

Palmer shrugged. “Be rich by then, wouldn’t I? Nobody cares what you do when you’re rich. Besides, not like I was hurting anyone. The dead don’t care.”

“You hurt Parsons,” Athos pointed out. “You were running out of time, weren’t you? Is that why you risked one closer to home, dug up a more direct descendant? But the estate was about to be finalised. Even if this grave had proved the family connection, it would still have been too late. So Parsons had to go.”

“Shut up! What would you know?” Palmer yelled, lunging for him in sudden fury, and Athos turned and ran. 

He’d got barely a handful of steps before something thumped into the back of his legs and his foot caught on something hard, sending him heavily to the ground. Lying there stunned, it took him a second to realise Palmer had snatched up the shovel and thrown it like a javelin between his legs.

He tried to scoot backwards on the rough gravel, attempting to get his feet under him as Palmer made a grab for the shovel and swung it at him again.

Desperately trying to block the blow, Athos took most of the weight of it on his arm, but the metal blade still made contact with the side of his head and he fell back, dazed.

Hands raised in helpless defence, Athos’ scrambled senses could only watch as Palmer came to stand over him, raising the shovel to bring it down in a calculated killing blow.

Distantly he could hear sirens, gradually becoming distinct from the ringing in his head, but he knew even if they were coming here they were too far away to help. Palmer though had arrested his movement mid-swing, and for a second Athos thought he must have heard the approaching police, and either come to his senses or decided to cut and run. 

In the next moment this proved not to be the case, as the shovel came scything down towards Athos’ face after all. He threw himself backwards, flat in the dirt, and even as he was wondering how Palmer had managed to miss at that range he realised the man hadn’t been aiming at him after all. Staggering backwards, Palmer frantically thrashed at the air in front of him with the shovel, before dropping it and clawing at his face.

Athos scrambled away, still too dizzy to stand but determined to put some distance between them. The shovel lay unheeded on the ground next to Palmer, who seemed to be convulsing.

Athos wondered if he was having a heart attack and whether he should try and help. On the other hand, the man had just tried to kill him, and getting closer might be unwise. 

He was saved from having to decide by the arrival of three police cars screaming to a stop in the lane outside. 

_“Athos?”_

Athos recognised the voice bellowing his name from beyond the bird cages with some relief.

“Here!”

Porthos rounded the corner at a run, took in Athos sprawled on the ground and made a bee-line for him, waving the others towards the still writhing Palmer.

“Athos? Oh my God.” Porthos dropped to his knees beside him and gathered Athos into his arms.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Athos gasped, leaning against him with considerable relief.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just a scratch. I’m okay.” Athos failed to hide the wince as Porthos touched his arm, and Porthos glared at him.

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Just bruised. I’ll live.”

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No! I don’t need an ambulance,” Athos protested. “Really. I’m fine.”

“Okay. No ambulance. But I’m taking you to the hospital myself,” Porthos told him firmly.

“So – I found your murderer for you,” Athos offered sheepishly, looking over to where the seemingly recovered Palmer was being taken into custody.

Porthos grunted. “Next time if you could avoid using yourself as bait? I’d appreciate it.”

As Palmer was marched out in handcuffs between d’Artagnan and Marcheaux, Elodie came over to see if Porthos needed help. Athos gestured towards the group disappearing around the corner.

“What was the matter with him? He was about to finish me off, then he suddenly started flailing like a mad thing. Was he fitting?”

Elodie shrugged. "Couldn’t get much sense out of him to be honest. He just kept insisting he was attacked by a bird."

\--

Having dropped Athos at the Urgent Care Centre, Porthos had reluctantly dragged himself back to work, and as he drove towards Owlbrook that evening dreaded finding that the cottage was in darkness and that Athos had been more badly hurt than he’d let on.

To his deep relief there were lights on inside, and Athos himself came to open the door, having been listening out for his car. 

“You okay?” Porthos asked worriedly, having been fretting all afternoon about finding Athos in a state.

“Yeah. Nothing broken. Not even a concussion. I didn’t get so much as a lollipop for being good,” Athos protested with mock indignation and Porthos laughed, kissing him on the lips and then hugging him carefully.

“So – I’m fine,” Athos ventured after a moment. “You can yell at me if you want?”

“What good would it do?” Porthos sighed. “You never bloody listen to me anyway.” He relented with a smile, and kissed him again. “You’re alright, that’s all that matters.”

“Did Palmer spill the beans?”

“More or less.” Porthos followed Athos into the living room and accepted a glass of wine with another kiss, making Athos smile. They settled onto the couch together, Porthos wrapping an arm around Athos’ shoulders, needing the reassurance of touch to remind him that all was fine. 

“Palmer’s admitted to phoning Parsons, arranging to meet him at the graveyard early in the morning. He claims that he just wanted to explain his position, argue for a cut of the estate.”

“Like that was ever likely to happen.”

“Yeah, well, exactly. It’s got bells on. He also claims that Parsons went for him, that he was acting in self-defence when he clocked him one.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Not especially, but it’ll be a devil proving otherwise. Still, we’ve got him for the attack on you as well. Any custodial sentence at his age is likely to mean life in any case.” Porthos sipped his wine and frowned. 

“There is one odd thing we’ve been unable to corroborate though. Palmer admitted that having found himself with a corpse on his hands, he’d intended to fill the grave in again, burying Parsons with it and hoping that he’d never be found. Except he claims he was interrupted. Just as it was starting to get light, some old chap came round the corner of the church. Said he seemed familiar, but couldn’t put his finger on who it was. He only really saw him in silhouette. Flat cap he said, and thought he was smoking a pipe.”

Athos stared at him as Porthos carried on, oblivious to his expression. “Anyway, our Jasper made a run for it, thinking he’d been discovered, but when he looked back there was no-one in sight. He’s been bricking it ever since, thinking that somebody saw him. Strange that no-one’s come forward.”

“I don’t think they will now.” Athos glanced at Wilfred’s tobacco jar on the mantelpiece with a questioning smile. “I think maybe it was another Palmer. Seeing justice done, perhaps.”

“Someone else in line to inherit?” Porthos wondered.

“No. No, I don’t think they’ll be coming forward any time soon.”

Porthos gave him a funny look then safely changed the subject. “Elodie tracked down the lab he was using. Place in Bristol. Found the correspondence they’d been sending him. She spoke to them this afternoon. Do you want to know the ironic thing? All the bone tests had been negative. Even the last one, that they hadn’t got round to sending back yet, and which took her a good bit of convincing to get them to give us. Palmer or not, he must have been from a different bunch, or else this illegitimate ancestor was someone else’s entirely. There weren’t enough similar genetic markers to suggest he was ever related to any of them.”

“So it was all for nothing,” Athos said ruefully.

“Seems like it,” Porthos agreed. “Shame really, what greed makes people do. He wasn’t all that badly off, just convinced he was entitled to more.”

“Did he say any more about what happened to him in the aviary?” Athos asked. 

“Sticking to his story that he was attacked by a bird, despite lack of any evidence to the contrary,” said Porthos neutrally. “And no, it hasn’t escaped my attention that it matches what you said happened to you in the same place.”

“Do you believe me now then?”

“I didn’t disbelieve you before.” Porthos planted a sloppy kiss on the side of his head and reached for the wine bottle. “But if I can’t see it I cant arrest it, so I’ll stick to the tangibles of the case if you don’t mind, and leave the weird shit to somebody else.” 

“You know, I was thinking,” Athos started after a pause, and Porthos gave him a suspicious look. 

“Don’t look so alarmed, it’s nothing bad,” Athos laughed, slapping him reprovingly on the knee. “It’s just, while I was looking into commercial genetics labs, I noticed a lot of places offer ancestry searches. You send them a cheek swab, and they’ll provide a report on the genetic history of either your maternal or paternal line. It identifies your – haplogroup, I think they called it. I just – you were saying a while ago how you wished you knew where your ancestors came from originally and I thought this might be a way of finding out? I don’t know how specific it gets, but it would be a start, right?”

Porthos’ expression was unreadable, certainly less enthusiastic than Athos had expected, and he faltered. “It’s only about a hundred and seventy quid,” he offered lamely.

“That’s still a lot of money,” Porthos muttered.

“I thought maybe you’d like it as a Christmas present? I mean, it’s coming up, and I didn’t really know what else to get you.”

Porthos hesitated. “Can I think about it?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m not trying to push it on you, I just thought you’d be interested,” Athos assured him, worried now that Porthos thought he was interfering in something that was none of his business. “There’s always chocolate instead,” he added vaguely.

Porthos smiled at that, and pulled Athos into a hug. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for thinking of it, it’s a lovely thing for you to offer. I just – it had never occurred to me, and it’s a lot to take in.”

“Well the technology’s not going to go away,” Athos pointed out. “There’s no rush.”

Porthos kissed him slowly. “I love you,” he murmured. Athos smiled against his lips.

“I love you too.”

Things were just promising to get a little more interesting when the doorbell rang. 

Porthos groaned. “Ignore it.”

“It might be important,” Athos laughed, extricating himself from Porthos’ arms with difficulty. 

To his surprise it was Aramis, clutching a piece of paper. “Sorry to disturb you so late,” he said. “I hear you had an eventful afternoon.”

“You could say that,” Athos agreed. “Presumably it’s all round the village by now?”

“Naturally,” Aramis grinned. “Have you got a minute?”

“Yes, of course, come in. Would you like a drink?”

“Wouldn’t say no.” Aramis nodded to Porthos, who to his surprise came over and shook his hand.

“If it hadn’t been for your tip about Palmer being the gravedigger I probably wouldn’t have had sufficient grounds to come down here earlier,” he said, sliding a protective arm around Athos’ waist. “God knows what would have happened.”

“He worries,” Athos smiled, handing Aramis a glass of wine. “What’s this?” Aramis had handed him the rolled sheet of paper in return.

“It’s Feron’s family tree,” Aramis admitted. “I borrowed it earlier, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Er – no, it was only a copy. Why did you want it?”

“I saw a name I thought I recognised. I wanted to ask Anne about it.” He looked sheepish. “Anne Bourbon was the other no voter,” he admitted to Porthos, who rolled his eyes.

“Should have bloody guessed,” he muttered. Athos wondered privately if Aramis’ affair was quite as clandestine as he imagined, given that half the county seemed to know about it, but maybe Louis’ side of the family weren’t local.

“Anyway, I was right,” Aramis said, unrolling the chart. “Her great great – something – grand-aunt was married to a Feron. Say what you like about the upper classes, they keep excellent pedigree records.”

“Are you suggesting _Anne’s_ in line to inherit now?” Athos asked, astonished. “She’s related?”

“Distantly. But at this point, Drew’s willing to take anything he can get, just to get it settled. We went to see him this afternoon,” Aramis said with satisfaction. “It’ll have to be confirmed, but on first look it seems like it’s definitely the same person on both charts. If it’s true, she gets the lot. In her own right.”

Athos took his meaning. “So – no need for secrecy any more?” This explained the air of contained excitement about him.

“Maybe not.” Aramis made a show of crossing his fingers. 

“I’m glad for you both.” 

“Am I missing something?” Porthos asked, baffled by the feeling there was another level to the conversation he wasn’t getting.

“I’ll let Athos explain later,” Aramis smiled, sipping his wine. “Oh, and assuming everything works out, she’s promised that the existing tenancies can all remain as they are. She thought you might like to be the one to tell them,” he said to Athos.

“Oh that is good news, thank you,” Athos said fervently. “They will be relieved.”

“Decent result after all for your first case,” Porthos teased. “You’ll be wanting to go back to work after all now.”

Athos hesitated. “Well, maybe not to Benet and Shaw, but – actually, I have been offered a job.” He gave Porthos an apologetic smile. “So much has happened today I’ve not had a chance to tell you.”

“Who by?” Porthos asked, surprised.

“Stephen Drew. When I saw him earlier he had a proposal to make, before I left. I seem to have impressed him somehow. He’s planning on – not retiring exactly, but cutting back his hours. There’s enough bread-and-butter work to keep him going, but he wants to take on someone younger to tackle the more – energetic stuff. I don’t know how energetic it ever gets round here, but on the other hand there’s been four murders in the space of a year, so maybe it’s not quite as sleepy as it looks.”

“Have you accepted?” 

“No. Not yet. I wanted to discuss it with you first, and I’ve not had the chance.” Athos paused. “If I do take it – at some point I will inevitably cross swords with the local police. Which means you. I don’t want to make life difficult for you. If you’d rather I didn’t take it – then I won’t.”

"Do you _want_ to take it?"

"I think would solve a lot of problems for me. But I don't want to inadvertently create a lot of new ones in the process."

Porthos squeezed his hand, nodding slowly. “Take it. Take it.”

“Very well. If you’re sure?” Athos checked, and Porthos kissed him firmly in answer.

Aramis raised his glass. “Then, may I suggest a toast? To new beginnings.”

Athos and Porthos raised their own, and they all clinked. 

“To new beginnings.”

\--


End file.
